


The Evolution of Clint Barton

by Morgane (smilla840)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint backstory, Fix-It, M/M, Mind the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilla840/pseuds/Morgane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is 17 the first time he meets Fury. This is what happens after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Evolution of Clint Barton

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: non-descriptive mentions of torture, injuries and killing due to Clint’s line of work, allusions to PTSD and some suicidal thoughts. Also spoilers for the movie (meaning character death but only temporarily). Do let me know if you think I've missed something.
> 
> My attempt at a Clint’s backstory. While I used some of the comics’ canon for Clint’s childhood (caveat: I haven’t actually read any of them) this is firmly set in movie ‘verse. Also I should probably mention that the working summary for this was “Clint’s gay, Phil is straight and Natasha doesn’t sleep with anyone – somehow it works”. It diverged from that to become more firmly Clint/Phil but Natasha is still very much present.  
> Beta'ed by silentflux - thanks again for everything! :) As usual any remaining mistakes are my own.

Clint is 17 and his mentor has left him for dead in an alley.

He wakes up in the hospital, groggy and hurt in a way that has nothing to do with broken bones, and there is a guy standing next to his bed. He’s not who Clint wants to see. In fact Clint’s never seen him before and the fleeting notion that the Swordsman might have sent him to finish the job is almost comforting. Clint’s just lost his home and, it would appear, his brother – _why isn’t Barney here?_ –, he’s past caring about what happens to him now. Or maybe that’s just the drugs talking.

One thing he _does_ know is that the guy is no doctor – he doesn’t think they go around wearing leather coats in the hospital. It doesn’t seem very hygienic.

Either way the whole ‘watching Clint while he’s unconscious’ is kind of creepy. 

Also he’s going to pass out again soon.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you for quite some time, Mr. Barton,” the guy says and yeah, not helping with the creepiness factor. Besides, Clint hasn’t done anything worthy of anyone’s attention.

“You’re creepy,” he thinks he says before drugs and exhaustion pull him back under, and he isn’t sure but he thinks it makes the guy laugh. It’s a vaguely terrifying sound.

The next time he wakes up the guy is gone. If it weren’t for the fact that his medical bills have been paid in full, Clint would think he imagined the whole thing.

\---

Clint is 19 and he feels himself slipping away.

There aren’t a lot of options available to a kid with no money, family or high school diploma. And when that kid only has one skill set – taught to him by a criminal no less –, he inevitably attracts the wrong kind of attention.

It would be so easy. To just give in, join the wrong crowd. Clint’s smart and he’s good – it wouldn’t take him long to make a name for himself. And it would be such a relief too – he would no longer have to worry so much about everything then.

He won’t lie, there are times when he’s tempted – sorely so – but he fights it. He fights it tooth and nail. He gets his GED and works shitty jobs and sometimes goes without food if it’s that or make rent. He can’t – _won’t_ – become his father or his brother or Duquesne – everyone who’s ever disappointed him. Everyone who thought he would never amount to anything and it was okay to treat him like shit. It _wasn’t_ okay and he refuses to give them the satisfaction of being right.

One day he sits down and goes over his options. Then he does the only thing he can think of: he calls the nearest military recruitment office and makes an appointment.

He doesn’t do it out of any grand patriotic ideal. He does it because he’s reached the end of his rope. He’s out of options and it’s either that or giving in. He doesn’t know if they’ll even _want_ him, but he’s got to at least try.

When he gets there, he is ushered into an office and the guy from the hospital is sitting behind the desk. He is still wearing that leather coat and he’s no more a recruiter than he was a doctor.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Barton?” He points at a chair and although it’s phrased as a polite request, Clint’s not stupid – it’s anything but. He sits.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks and winces internally at how brittle he sounds, but damn it, he had a plan and it didn’t involve this – whatever this is.

The man looks at him appraisingly and as the silence stretches uncomfortably, Clint tries not to fidget.

“Fury. Nick Fury. I’m with SHIELD,” he finally says. Not that it helps at all: Clint’s got no idea what that even _means_. Before he can ask, the man – Fury – continues: “As I said last time we met, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re ‘ _The World’s Greatest Marksman_ ’,” he quotes and Clint bristles at the faintly mocking tone. He’s earned that title. Or at least he had. It’s been almost a year since he’s held a bow and– 

He firmly shuts down that line of thought before the longing becomes overwhelming.

“What do you want?” he asks defensively, and Fury watches him back steadily.

“I want you to prove it. I want you to do what you came here to do, and I want you to get the best training the US military can offer. Then – when you’re ready – I want you to come work for me.”

Clint doesn’t laugh but it’s a near thing.

“That’s all?” he asks derisively.

“That’s all,” Fury confirms with a smirk and man, that guy sure is something.

A business card appears in his hand – it’s a nice trick, but Clint has seen better – and he slides it across the desk towards Clint. All it’s got on it is a logo and a phone number and Clint pockets it with no intention of ever using it. He can always get rid of it later. Who does that guy think he is anyway?

Fury looks like he knows exactly what’s going through Clint’s mind, and it seems to amuse him. He stands and heads for the door, stopping briefly at Clint’s side.

“I suggest the Marine Corps,” he says, sounding almost bored. “Unless of course you think you can’t make it.”

Clint grits his teeth and doesn’t rise to the bait, waiting ‘til the door closes behind Fury to slump in his chair. He’s wondering if maybe he should just leave and forget the whole thing when the actual recruiter comes in few seconds later.

Clint sincerely hopes the guy isn’t too pissed about having his office requisitioned so some dick could talk to a kid. But whoever Fury is, he seems to have some pull because the guy just sits down, introduces himself, and asks Clint if there was anything in particular he wanted to talk about.

“The Marines,” Clint says because he knows a challenge when he hears one.

He’s going to prove Fury wrong even if he never sees him again.

\---

The Corps is a good fit for Clint. He’s used to doing what he’s told, used to pushing his body past its limits. As strange as it may sound, the circus has prepared him very well to the experience.

They take him in, give him purpose and make him part of something greater than himself. All they ask in return is his loyalty, and despite everything Clint still gives that freely. So he trains and he commits and he curbs his smart mouth. He gets the job done and takes pride in doing it well. The rest of the guys like him well enough, which he reciprocates tentatively.

Clint is – by nature or necessity – a loner. He doesn’t mind people, but he’d been around so many when he was younger – first in foster care and then the circus – that any hard-won moment of solitude had felt like something to be pursued and treasured. He used to hide on the highest trapeze platform, secure in the knowledge that no one would find him there – not even Barney. A childhood fancy, maybe, but no one had ever bothered him, more understanding of his need for space than he himself had been at the time. Those stolen moments of peace and quiet had been the only times he could hear himself think – until his aim was noticed and he started practicing with a bow, learning to lose himself in brand new ways.

In that aspect, the military is similar to the circus too. It’s a bunch of people thrown together in close quarters, and the only thing they have in common is that they were stupid enough to join up in the first place. For all that he’s used to it, Clint still finds himself longing for his bow – or a trapeze platform. 

It’s really no surprise that he would gravitate towards the base’s shooting range when he isn’t on duty. He isn’t expected to talk to anyone there – to _be_ anyone. He can just focus on the target and squeeze the trigger as the rest of the world fades away.

His marksmanship transfers easily to any type of weapon they hand him, and Clint quickly acquires a bit of a reputation. The boys say he never misses, but Clint is lucid enough to know there’s a difference between the controlled conditions of training and real combat. Their deployment to Somalia proves him right: it’s surprisingly hard to hit a target when things are exploding everywhere and people really are trying to kill you. 

Still, no one is surprised when he gets tagged for scout sniper training as soon as he meets the necessary requirements. He learns to focus on his target and still keep an awareness of his surroundings. His reputation grows. When asked, he shrugs and says he’s just got good eyes, and they call him Hawkeye. Clint doesn’t mind. He’s been called much worse.

He never gets around to throwing Fury’s card away. It’s still there, tucked in the back of his wallet, and he takes it out every once in a while, wondering what that was about. 

Most of the time though he doesn’t think about it at all.

\---

When Clint is 24, he is loaned to a governmental agency for a special assignment. He gets the call from his CO on one of his rare leaves, which he’s spending at the range he goes to when he’s using his bow. It’s far enough from the base that he won’t run into anyone he knows. All the man says is: _“Sergeant Barton, we need you to come in”_. Clint doesn’t ask questions – he just packs his things and goes.

He stands in front of his CO who gives him what little detail he’s got. The man clearly isn’t happy about the situation and Clint isn’t either – he’s been around the block long enough to recognise the fingerprints of the CIA all over this op. He isn’t a fan, but he’s got his orders. Besides, it’s only supposed to last three months at the most.

That same day, Clint gets into a military transport without any idea of where he’s going, and when they land a few hours later he is hit in the face by hot, humid air. If he had to guess – which he won’t because that’s not part of his job – he’d say he is somewhere in South America.

Thirty minutes later he’s standing in a tiny, cramped office where he meets a guy in a suit who calls himself John and says he’ll be his handler for the duration of the mission. Clint inwardly raises a dubious eyebrow at that and then John finally tells him what he’s here for.

The first time is hard. Pulling the trigger on someone in cold blood is different from killing someone in combat. It bothers Clint but they tell him it’s for the good of his country and he should be proud. It doesn’t make it any easier. He isn’t doing it for the praise anyway. 

It goes on. John gives him a target and a weapon and they drop him off somewhere with a time and location for pick-up. Usually, the target is long range but Clint’s training has made him versatile enough that sometimes it’s close quarters and messy. There is no back-up, and if he misses his ride, he gets left behind. He tries really hard not to miss his ride. Then it’s back to their current base to confirm the kill with John.

Clint doesn’t like the guy – they don’t ever socialize outside of work – but eventually he starts to trust him. Trust him to provide Clint with passable intel, that is. Not to come and get him – it’s been made very clear that if things go wrong, Clint is on his own, and that fact is driven home every time he has to turn in his dog tags before stepping into his transport.

Three months turn into six, which turn into a year which turns into four.

Clint learns not to think about it too much after a while. It just becomes his job, like being a Marine used to be. _Used to_ because he doesn’t think he has the right to call himself that anymore. He’s an assassin, plain and simple. Government sanctioned maybe – and very good at it – but assassin none-the-less. It doesn’t feel right to take any pride in that.

Eventually he stops caring.

They never give him names or reasons but Clint has always been good at seeing patterns and he figures out more than he’s supposed to. He knows that makes him dangerous, makes him a liability, so he keeps his mouth shut. He’s good at that too.

Three years in, he gets a new handler. His name is also John, and Clint doesn’t like him at all.

The patterns that had once been so clear and clean start getting murky. It’s not much, just an assignment here and there that doesn’t quite fit. Clint knows he doesn’t have the full picture so he sucks it up, tells himself it’s none of his business. Who is he going to tell anyway?

He finds himself looking at Fury’s card more often. It’s creased and stained and a little faded, but he traces the numbers with a careful finger over and over again. He doesn’t even know if the number still works, it’s been almost ten years, but sometimes he gets the urge to find out. 

He’s heard rumours about SHIELD here and there over the years, even knows what it stands for now. Whatever life is like with them, it can only be an improvement.

Clint is tired, a deep-seated exhaustion born of too much time spent in high-risk situations with no one watching his back, and that makes him a little sloppy – a little slow. He gets caught. It’s not the first time – he had been so fucking terrified then, so desperate, but he has learned since then and he’s got the scars to prove it. However, this time is worst because he almost doesn’t care if he makes it out. No one is coming for him, just like no one came last time or the time before, and if he dies out here, no one will care. No one will even know. That’s what finally pisses him off enough to get him to fight back: he’s bled and killed and lost part of his soul for this shit. He’ll be damned if it ends that way.

He escapes – barely – and on his first mission back from medical leave his handler hands him the picture of a kid. He can’t be more than ten years old, and he’s laughing in the shot, looking back at something or someone that’s been cropped out. 

A few days later Clint’s watching that same kid play with a ball through the scope of his rifle and his hands are shaking. Slowly, carefully, he puts the weapon down and throws up at the thought of what he’s almost done. Then he packs up and goes to meet his transport, his decision made.

Back at base, the first thing he does is find a phone. He punches in the number on Fury’s card and waits to see if the call will connect. It does before he can change his mind and hang up.

“This Fury?” he asks.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Clint Barton.”

There is a brief moment of silence at the other end, and Clint’s starting to think he’s just made a huge mistake when:

“You ready to come home, son?”

“Christ, you’re cocky,” Clint sighs tiredly. He had forgotten about that. It surprises a bark of laughter out of the man. “But yeah, I’ll come in.”

“Good.”

“I might be in the brig,” Clint says because hey, fair warning. There is something else he’s got to do. 

After he hangs up he finds John – Jesus Christ, a fucking kid playing ball – and he clocks him one.

“Fuck you,” he says succinctly. He’s always been a man of few words.

 

Fury does find him in the brig. He turns up two days later, looking almost exactly the same as the last time Clint saw him, leather coat included – Clint can’t decide whether that’s supremely cool or completely ridiculous. The only change is the eyepatch that now covers his left eye, and Clint doesn’t ask because Fury’s carrying his discharge papers – honourable no less. Clint has no idea how he swung that one. 

The Corps turned him into a Marine and the CIA turned him into a killer. 

Clint wonders what SHIELD will make of him.

\---

His first few months at SHIELD are spent in debriefings and psych evals, and Clint would really like to know whether all new hires go through this process or only the ones with a somewhat suspicious employment history.

The guy in charge of the debriefings introduces himself as Agent Phil Coulson, and between the suit and the air of unflappability Clint can only be glad his first name isn’t John.

“Where the hell is Fury?” Clint asks the first day.

“Director Fury is busy,” Coulson simply says, and Clint barely avoids doing a double-take. _Director?_ That explains a few things.

Coulson doesn’t ask a lot of questions in their early sessions, preferring to sit back and let the junior agent who had the misfortune of accompanying him that day try and make sense of Clint’s childhood and military career. Clint quickly figures out he isn’t the only one being evaluated: they must be making a training opportunity out of this. Unfortunately for the rookies, he has a lot of experience side-stepping questions he doesn’t want to answer. The slight twitch of Coulson’s lips that’s quickly replaced by a frown directed at the junior agents who don’t catch on tells Clint he isn’t fooling all of them. It also tells him Coulson is dangerous.

When they start asking about his more recent history, Clint makes it very clear that he’s not volunteering anything. He doesn’t care if they already know where he was and what he was doing – though he wouldn’t mind knowing _how_ they know. It is still classified information and no, he isn’t going to answer any more questions. Not until they show him some paper from the US Marine Corps or the fucking CIA saying he can.

The unfortunate junior agent tries to press the issue, and Clint doesn’t bother hiding how unimpressed he is by his attempts at intimidation. Besides, it’s almost amusing to watch him lose his composure. Under normal circumstances, Clint might feel sorry for him, but he’s spent way too many hours in this room. Not to mention the dick came in with coffee for his boss and not for Clint. Yes, he can do vindictive. He’s sick of this shit.

He wonders idly if the next learning opportunity for the rookies is going to be more ‘ _advanced_ ’ interrogation techniques. That would be a bit of a disappointment.

Instead, the next time they sit down at the table it’s just him and Coulson and the piece of paper Clint asked for.

Clint shrugs. Okay then. “Let’s do this.”

Coulson is relentless. He doesn’t only want to know what Clint did but everything he saw, felt, deduced and inferred from virtually every situation he’s ever found himself in. It’s slow-going and fucking uncomfortable to be the focus of such intense scrutiny. Clint should be used to it after spending his formative years putting on a show for hundreds of people, but he’s not a teenager anymore. In fact, in the past four years being noticed meant being dead. Being _different_ had been what put him in this mess in the first place. 

But Coulson won’t let him hide and always seems to know when Clint is holding back. It takes them days to reach that final job that changed everything. By then Clint can’t figure out if he hates the guy or respects the fuck out of him. 

Almost murdering a child without a second thought is hardly one of Clint’s proudest moments. The lack of judgement on Coulson’s face alternatively makes it easier and so much worse. Clint’s feelings don’t matter though so he grits his teeth and forges on. 

Guess part of him is still a Marine after all.

The psych evals are almost easy in comparison. They keep insisting he needs to acclimate to civilian life, make connections with people. Privately Clint thinks it’s a fucking joke. SHIELD is hardly civilian life, and he doesn’t know how to talk to his neighbours – doesn’t want to try either. But he still nods along because that’s what you do in that kind of situation. 

They’ve set him up in a Brooklyn apartment to help with the process. If they had bothered asking, Clint would have told them he would much rather take quarters at HQ. At least there people understand what it’s like. But they didn’t ask, and Clint doesn’t complain. If it makes them happy and he gets the all-clear faster, he’ll go back to his empty apartment every evening and stare at the walls. They are white, and whoever painted them was probably left-handed. 

He’s never had so much free time on his hands and eventually he gets bored. So he goes for runs and hangs around his apartment in sweatpants and an old Marine T-shirt. He watches bad TV and barely recognises any of the programs. He goes to the library and picks books at random. Then he learns to cook because he’s still bored and it seems like a good way to pass the time. Besides, after living on pre-packaged food for a decade, the thought of more of the same is vaguely depressing.

He even goes out and picks up a guy once or twice. His sex drive has never been that high maintenance and it pretty much checked out a couple of years ago but Clint still feels like he should make an effort, mostly because he can: unlike the military, SHIELD doesn’t care one way or another. Not that Clint is going to volunteer the information. He’s always protected ferociously every little bit of privacy he was allowed and his line of work only reinforced that. Since he highly doubts it’s in his file – the last time he went on a date he was 16 and her name was Lucy – he would like to keep it that way.

Even without that piece of information his shrink won’t shut up about how much progress he’s making. Clint has no idea what he’s talking about – he’s just bored – but he thinks the cooking thing clinches it, and he’s finally approved for training.

He is a little surprised when Coulson turns out to be in charge of that too, his horde of rookies following behind with various degrees of trepidation. Clint’s hand-to-hand is rusty – he usually used his rifle in the field, and it’s not like he had time to practice in between jobs – but he can still take them. He fights hard and dirty, with an edge born of too many life or death situations that gives him the upper hand. It’s not something they’ve ever had to experience for themselves, and Clint hopes for their sakes they never have to. Coulson is harder to take down, and it will take a long while before Clint feels confident that the outcome of a fight between them would be in his favour.

The range is still easy and uncomplicated – familiar. When Coulson hands him a bow Clint takes it with a reverence he hasn’t felt in a while. It’s beautiful and perfectly balanced, and he loses an entire afternoon getting better acquainted with it. When he’s done, the muscles in his arms and shoulders are sore in a very satisfying way, and Coulson is still there, watching him contemplatively. When he meets Clint’s eyes he gives him a slight nod and half a smile before walking away, seeming to understand Clint’s need for some privacy.

Clint doesn’t know how he feels about being that transparent.

\---

When they finally let him out in the field – after so many training exercises Clint felt like he was back in basic – it’s not what he expects. There is no target, no lonely mission with only a weapon for company. They put Clint on surveillance detail and high on rooftops to serve as back-up for SHIELD teams on the ground. They’re all straight-forward assignments that don’t present much challenge and it’s… fine. 

He just doesn’t get it.

He knows SHIELD has a hit list. He also knows what he’s good at. What he doesn’t know is why they won’t use him to pursue their goals – what they’re afraid of. Clint isn’t going to fall to pieces if they send him out to kill someone who probably deserves it. _Really_.

He would never admit it but deep down he’s relieved. He still sees that kid’s face in his nightmares and part of him doesn’t want to go through that again. He doesn’t trust SHIELD not to screw him over, not yet.

Clint doesn’t care what the shrinks say, he doesn’t have a problem with trust. He trusted the guys in his unit to watch his back, trusted a couple of his COs not to be complete idiots and send them all to die, trusted his first CIA handler. He trusts himself to make the shot. But _when_ he trusts is the one thing he gets to decide for himself, the one thing he can’t be ordered to do. He trusts people who’ve earned it and sometimes he’s wrong but then that’s on him. SHIELD isn’t there yet because Clint doesn’t think Fury counts – or rather doesn’t think that calling that number counts as him trusting Fury. 

That doesn’t mean he won’t do his job perfectly. He’ll obey their orders and fulfil his duties but everything else will – or won’t – happen in its own time.

Coulson is usually in charge of whatever mission Clint is part of. That makes him uneasy at first as Coulson is too firmly associated with the CIA in his mind for Clint to be entirely comfortable around the man. But he learns to ignore it. On the job, whether he is in the field or just a voice in his ear, Coulson makes good calls – the kind Clint would make if anyone asked for his opinion. Even when everything goes to hell around them, the man is dependable and keeps his shit together. He puts the lives of his men first and Clint respects that. 

It’s still a bit of an adjustment: Clint’s grown used to being on his own and making decisions on the fly without having to wait for anyone’s opinion. But he’s not blind to the advantages of having back-up. And for all the autonomy he had in the past few years, he’s spent even longer following orders. It’s an easy habit to fall back into: there’s something almost comforting about handing responsibility over to someone else and only have to concentrate on doing his job.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Clint relaxes in his new environment. The first time he breaks radio silence to make an off-hand comment unrelated to the mission he doesn’t know who is more surprised, him or Coulson. Not that it fazes the man for long – Clint’s quickly come to the conclusion that very little does unless you know what to look for. _Clint_ is the one who has trouble reconciling his faux-pas with his training. They may not label their working relationship because Clint’s hackles still go up at the word ‘handler’ but Coulson is the one who gives the orders and you don’t chitchat with your superiors.

Just a few weeks later, Clint gets separated from his team in Zagreb – it’s the problem with being high up: when things go to shit and he needs to hightail it out of there he’s usually out of synch with the team on the ground. There are fail-safes in place to correct that but the team is still new and relatively inexperienced, and Coulson isn’t there to browbeat them into shape, it being one of those rare missions he had to sit out at HQ. 

Clint dodges hostiles for close to four hours, and when he finally gets captured, he thinks this is it. This is when he’s left to fend for himself again.

He isn’t expecting any rescue because hoping means being disappointed. Besides, time spent thinking about it is time better spent trying to find a way out. So he grits his teeth and takes everything his captors dish out, waiting for his opportunity.

After close to twenty-four hours, Coulson kicks the door in and Clint blinks from him to the two dead guards on either side of him.

“What are you doing here?” he slurs.

The look on Coulson’s face is a little stricken and a little sad, and Clint feels like he should apologise.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Barton,” Coulson says, his voice tight with some unnamed emotion as he unties Clint and half carries him outside where transport is waiting.

“Sorry,” Clint manages before he passes out and he thinks Coulson tells him to shut up before he makes it worse, but maybe he just imagined it.

Unsurprisingly, he gets more mandatory psych sessions after that.

He also gets a friend – or close enough to it. Clint hasn’t had that many in his life but he thinks this might qualify. 

It is a bit one-sided at first, Coulson making sure they spend some time together when they’re both at HQ. First it’s meeting at the range or training together at the gym. Then it graduates to lunch at the cafeteria when they coincidentally find themselves there at the same time. And Clint realises he doesn’t mind. In fact he finds himself looking forward to it. Coulson has a wry sense of humour that compliments Clint’s nicely, and he doesn’t seem to mind when Clint needs to be quiet. 

“Why are you doing this?” Clint asks one day when he’s feeling curious and Coulson – _Phil_ when they’re not working now, he insisted – smiles wryly.

“Is it so hard to believe I enjoy your company?”

Clint shrugs because yeah, a little. He’s hardly a skilled conversationalist – taciturn is one of the kindest words that’s been used to describe him in the past. In fact most of their interactions consist of the two of them being silent together.

“I don’t want you to think no one is coming for you ever again,” Coulson says, suddenly serious, and Clint swallows hard because he believes him. 

“And for the record I do enjoy your company,” Phil adds with a small smile before going back to the file in front of him.

After this it’s no surprise Phil Coulson is the first person at SHIELD Clint trusts without reservation. There will be others eventually but Phil’s the first, and that will always make him special.

\---

When they start pairing him with less experienced agents, Coulson moving up the ranks and no longer required to handle the new agents who are invariably assigned to team up with Clint, Clint isn’t entirely happy about it but it’s not really his place to comment. Phil knows anyway. According to him it’s a good way for new recruits to acquire field experience as Clint hardly needs any of them there to bring the mission home. They’re not going to screw anything up even if they try.

And they do try sometimes.

This inevitably leads to Clint disobeying a direct order for the first time at SHIELD. It would never have happened if Coulson had been there, but the new guy thinks his fancy college degree is worth more than Clint’s years of experience. When things go pear-shaped, Matthews loses his cool and almost gets them all killed before Clint tells him to shove it and does what he thinks is best, the man sputtering in his ear all the way through.

Matthews is clamouring for disciplinary action all the way back to HQ and through debriefing. It makes Clint’s cheeks burn dully, embarrassed both for the man’s ineptitude and by his own complete disregard of the chain of command, and he resolutely stares right in front of him, not looking at anyone.

“Oh, shut up,” Coulson finally tells Matthews exasperatedly. “You almost got your team killed, you should be thanking Agent Barton for saving your ass. If you can’t see that, you have no place at SHIELD.”

Clint almost visibly starts at that, his eyes finding Coulson’s for a second before darting away. It shuts Matthews up though and the rest of the debriefing is pretty uneventful, the guy stomping out of the room as soon as Coulson snaps the file in front of him closed.

Clint remains rooted on his seat. 

“You have a question, Agent Barton?”

“I disobeyed orders,” he says, more than a little bit confused. SHIELD may not be the military but they still operate under a strict hierarchy and discipline is key in any successful agency. If an agent doesn’t like an order, they do it anyway because most of the time there is no time for argument. It’s obey or die or – worse – get the team killed. That’s how it works. And when the orders are what’s getting people killed, well… 

“They were pretty stupid orders, Clint,” Phil says, his voice strangely gentle and when he walks past Clint on his way out he hesitates for a split second before squeezing his shoulder briefly. “You did good.”

Clint nods automatically, not sure what this means for him. Independent thinking is not something he’s ever been encouraged to do. Following orders is easy and he’s very good at it (most of the time). One of the hardest periods of his life can be traced back to him showing initiative: trying to do the right thing by turning in his mentor had suddenly left Clint homeless and utterly alone, and he hasn’t talked to his brother in over a decade. Then again that same initiative has saved him too – he doesn’t want to think about where he would be today if he had pulled the trigger on his last CIA job.

Maybe it _is_ time for a change.

 

A Clint Barton who allows himself the freedom to think for himself is frighteningly focused and opinionated, and while both Fury and Coulson seem extremely pleased by the results, not all agents can handle it. Clint’s position at SHIELD has always been a little peculiar for no reason that he could determine – Fury has ‘plans’, whatever _that_ means – and the extra leeway just puts him farther ahead of the average agent. It’s fine by Clint though, it crops the idiots out and he ends up working more often with Coulson again.

The missions Clint likes best are the ones where it’s just him and Phil, when there is no back-up team to worry about. They get the job done and then relax at the safe house, watching bad television while writing their report and awaiting transport. Phil’s taste, it turns out, is fairly atrocious, and the fact that he has no qualms sharing it with Clint makes something deep inside feel a little warmer.

\---

Three years into his tenure at SHIELD Clint gets his first kill order. The guy’s rap sheet is a mile long and Coulson goes through it all, looking a little tight around the eyes. Clint nods along, feeling strangely detached as he listens with one ear to Phil’s reassurance that he’s making the world a better place. He doesn’t need to hear it, he trusts Phil. And that’s almost scarier than everything else because he’s got to wonder, what would he do if _Phil_ asked him to shoot a kid?

He uses a rifle and not the bow he always takes with him in the field nowadays. He doesn’t want the memories next time he’s backing up Phil or a team of agents. He breathes in and out slowly, Phil’s voice almost comforting as he informs him of the target’s movements through the comm. And he is fine. Perfectly fine.

He takes the shot and watches the man’s head explode through his scope.

Dead centre, no surprise there.

What _is_ a surprise is the way his hands shake afterwards, so hard that he can’t pack his weapon. He must go off comm. too – he’s a little fuzzy on the details – because Coulson comes and finds him. Phil is the one who takes him back to the safe house, his hand a warm pressure on Clint’s back keeping him moving forward, and he doesn’t comment when Clint has to stop once to throw up in an alley. 

Phil puts him to bed, piling blankets on top of him as Clint curls up into a ball and can’t seem to stop shaking. All he can see is that kid, that fucking kid whose name he doesn’t even know, his head exploding like the man he just killed, and he knows it didn’t happen, knows he _didn’t_ pull the trigger then but that doesn’t help and Jesus Christ, how fucked up is that?

He mechanically takes the pills Phil offers, doesn’t even ask what they are, and eventually he drifts off, starting awake in the middle of the night with his heart pounding and echoes of a nightmare still fresh in his mind. Phil is slumped on the chair in a corner of the room, asleep in a position that can’t possibly be comfortable, but he wakes up when Clint does, instantly alert.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep and Clint doesn’t try lying to him.

“I’m not going to get any more sleep tonight, you should take the bed.”

Phil thankfully doesn’t protest, sinking into the bed with a yawn and Clint heads for the living room, Phil’s voice stopping him in the doorway.

“You don’t have to do this again.”

“I know. I’ll be fine.”

Phil sighs and Clint goes to get a glass of water. He is inexorably led back to the bedroom, taking the chair Phil’s vacated. The man’s breathing is even and deep and it makes Clint feels safe. So he settles down and looks out of the window, waiting for dawn.

 

It does happen again. Clint never refuses. He figures it’s the least he owes SHIELD.

He gets used to it again, to the mindset that helps him cope and remain functional. Helps him not care. It’s not that hard, in fact it’s almost easy, and he thinks he could lose himself in it. The pinched look on Phil’s face whenever that happens stops him though. The man becomes his lifeline to normality, and sometimes after a particularly bad one he’ll wake up shaking from a nightmare in unfamiliar surroundings, and Phil’s heavy hand on his shoulder is what grounds him back to the present.

Eventually, even the nightmares go away. Clint doesn’t know whether he should be grateful or not.

\---

In Detroit Phil gets stabbed in the gut. Clint doesn’t deal with it very well. He kills the guy who did it without blinking an eye and the other four who were with him for good measure. He doesn’t feel a thing. At least not until he’s kneeling next to Phil, trying to keep him awake and talking and slow down the bleeding at the same time.

When help arrives Clint fights them too. Phil passed out a minute ago and all he knows is that they’re trying to pull him away from him, make him let go, but he can’t let go because if he does Phil will bleed out and that’s just not an option. In the corner of his mind he knows they’re trying to help, knows he’s making it worse but he’s past rational thoughts, has been since Phil first went down and Clint snapped the neck of the guy responsible for it.

He is dimly aware of the prick of a needle in his arm and then whatever sedative they shot him up with takes effect and he doesn’t know anything anymore.

He wakes up in SHIELD medical with a dry mouth and a headache and he stumbles out of bed with only one thing on his mind, almost scaring a nurse to death in the process.

“Where’s Coulson?” he grits out and she points him in the right direction.

Clint staggers into the chair next to Phil’s bed and lets the steady beating of the heart monitor settle something deep inside him. Slowly he relaxes, breathing in and out in sync with the respirator, and closes his eyes.

\---

Clint’s always known that Phil is handsome. It was almost an abstract concept at first, completely irrelevant due to how Clint just wasn’t interested. Later, his slowly reawakening libido had gleefully informed him he found the man attractive, and Clint hadn’t been that surprised. Phil is steady and reliable and pretty much a badass, and Clint is self-aware enough to know that works for him.

That hadn’t been a problem: Clint has worked with plenty of attractive guys in the past and he always handled it just fine. In fact it hadn’t even been an issue when it became something more – Clint hates to use the word ‘crush’ but he can’t think of one that fits better. It was perfectly natural, and he had it under control. It would go away eventually.

He should have known better really. It is Phil after all, and the fact that Clint trusts him and likes him on a personal level that has nothing to do with sexual attraction screws up his prediction.

Nothing can come of it of course. Phil is married and not interested: Clint’s met his wife a couple of times and she seemed perfectly nice. So he buries it, thoroughly and methodically. It almost feels like ripping off a part of himself but he does it anyway because Phil is the best man he knows, and the best friend he could ever hope for. He won’t let anything or anyone – not even himself – mess that up.

Sometimes though, when he’s alone in his empty apartment and Phil is at home with his wife, Clint wants something he can’t even name so bad it hurts.

\---

Four years into Clint’s employment with SHIELD, Natasha Romanoff comes into his life and changes everything.

She’s just a picture and an impressive list of kills at first, with Clint being the one assigned to rid SHIELD of the Black Widow problem after she’s taken out one operative too many in Eastern Europe.

He recognizes something in her, a bone-deep exhaustion that comes from having to watch your back all the time because there is no one to do it for you, and the bleak acceptance of having no way out that’s slowly replaced the desperate need for something different. Romanoff is what Clint could have become if he hadn’t found an anchor in an old business card. Looking at her now it’s painfully obvious that she never had anything of the sort. 

Clint decides to return the favour.

When he tells Coulson, the man looks at him for the longest time without saying a word, and Clint, who usually has a pretty good idea of what he’s thinking, couldn’t even begin to hazard a guess. 

“She’s not you, Clint.”

“I know that.” 

He does. Even at his worst Clint had still been a government sanctioned hit-man – or so he thinks, he never quite figured out what the hell was going with his last CIA handler and when he tried to find out, the man had disappeared from the surface of the earth. He suspects SHIELD may have had something to do with that. 

Clint had murdered people _for the greater good_ – whatever that was at the time – and he had been loyal, if not to the CIA then to the Corps and later to SHIELD. 

Romanoff had been like that too at some point even if her allegiances would have put her in Clint’s crosshairs more often than not. She had gotten out – like Clint – but without SHIELD to fall back on she had gone rogue, loyal to no one but herself.

“She’s good though. Could be great,” Clint points out, not giving up on this.

“ _If_ she works for us,” Coulson says, emphasising the ‘if’. “What makes you think she would?”

Clint shrugs. He can’t really explain it. “Just a hunch.”

“You do realise she could be playing us?” Coulson presses and Clint has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop a smile at the ‘us’.

“She isn’t.” She might be.

Coulson sighs. “Fine, set it up.”

Romanoff doesn’t make it easy, but then Clint didn’t expect it would be. When cornered she fights before he can even get a word in edgewise, and she’s better than him – or at least she would be if she was well rested and had had a decent meal in the past few days. She hasn’t. Clint’s been watching.

Also, Clint has Coulson.

“That’s quite enough now, Miss Romanoff.”

The disbelief on her face at the ‘Miss’ is almost comical and Clint takes advantage of her shift of focus from Clint – unarmed, less of an immediate threat – to Coulson’s gun to put some distance between them, wiping blood out of his eyes.

“How would you feel about working for SHIELD?” Clint asks and then lets Phil do his thing.

He gives her a choice, go with them or walk away and all bets are off next time they cross path.

She goes with them.

\---

Unlike Clint, Natasha is confined to quarters for the duration of her debriefing, which Phil is in charge of. Clint visits sometimes in-between missions, not quite sure why. She doesn’t trust him, doesn’t trust any of them, but she hides it well and it’s strange for Clint to find himself the more talkative one for once. It’s okay though, he can make an effort. Their interactions are often tense and filled with awkward silences as they try to gauge the other out. It should be uncomfortable as hell – most of the time it is – but every once in a while it’s also kind of comforting. Deep down they understand one another, and neither of them can say that about many people in their life.

They train together, mostly because no one else will fight against her. Clint was right, she _is_ better than him, and he gets his ass handed to him most of the time. But she makes him better too: as weeks and months go by he’s able to hold his own more and more often and the first time he takes her down he gets a grin, wild and feral. It’s fun.

When he gets knocked out during a particularly ridiculous mission and wakes up in the infirmary, Phil’s there looking mildly disapproving.

“Hey,” Clint rasps. He hasn’t seen much of Phil lately except when the man was observing him and Natasha spar, her debriefing keeping him busy and out of the field. 

“How are you feeling?” Phil asks.

“Like I got trampled by an elephant.” It’s a feeling Clint’s well acquainted with.

“That’s what happens when you fall out of a tree.”

Clint should know better than to shrug with the amount of bruising he probably has but he does it anyway and winces, the painkillers he’s on not enough to mask the pain entirely.

“When are you coming back?” he asks because he misses him and their time in the field together in a way that has nothing to do with whatever feelings he may have for the man.

“Soon.”

“Good,” Clint mutters, yawning halfway through. Morphine makes him sleepy.

“You have a visitor,” Phil adds before Clint can decide sleep sounds like a good way to pass the time until medical lets him go home.

Clint makes an interrogative sound and Phil inclines his head towards a corner of the medical bay where Natasha is standing, far enough not to appear to be eavesdropping. Then again it’s Natasha so Clint’s pretty certain she is.

“Uh,” Clint says, surprised and maybe a little pleased.

“Be careful,” Phil cautions on his way out and Clint can’t quite figure out what he means.

Natasha plops down into the chair as soon as Phil’s left the room.

“You trust him,” she opens with. “You’re… friends?” She makes it sound like such a foreign and novel notion that Clint feels a little embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he says and Natasha looks at him contemplatively. There is an edge to it though, like she can’t quite figure something out, and Clint feels for her because he was in her shoes not so long ago.

“Doesn’t it make you weak, in the field?”

“It can,” Clint answers truthfully, thinking about Detroit. He doesn’t even consider lying: she would know. “It makes us stronger too.” Because for every Detroit there are dozens Zagrebs and that makes it worthwhile in the end.

Natasha nods to herself. They sit in silence for a while before she leaves without saying goodbye, and Clint thinks that maybe they’re almost friends.

Five days later – three since Phil drove him home after medical released him – Clint comes back from his run to find Natasha in his living room, examining her surroundings with frank appraisal.

“Are you AWOL?” he asks, somewhere between amusement and resignation, and leaves her to her inspection while he goes into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. 

His hand hovers over the knives – if Natasha _is_ AWOL, who knows what she’s here for – before deciding to trust her. He drinks the water before refilling his glass and bringing it along to the couch where he collapses gratefully, muffling a groan. Maybe the run wasn’t a good idea. His spectacular bruises are _not_ happy with him right now.

Reflexively he thinks he should have asked Natasha if she wanted something to drink. Clint’s not used to having visitors – Phil usually just helps himself.

“I’ve been cleared for duty,” Natasha finally volunteers when Clint looks at her expectantly, and he relaxes marginally into the cushions.

“Want to celebrate?” he offers. Actually the last thing he wants to do is to get up from his couch – except maybe to grab a shower, a nice long hot one, and Christ he’s getting soft – but if he had been locked up in SHIELD’s HQ for six months he knows he would appreciate some fresh air.

She nods, abandoning his bookshelves to stand in front of him. In a smooth motion she pulls her T-shirt over her head and then sits down, straddling his hips.

Clint goes very still.

“What are you doing?” he says, keeping his voice level and mild.

She shoots him a look that says he can’t be that dumb and grinds down against him. And yeah, no, that’s not going to work.

Clint knows just enough about Natasha’s background to have figured out that she’s probably been taught way too young how to use sex as a weapon, and while he isn’t sure if she’s offering now because she thinks she owes him or because she’s trying to manipulate him somehow, he _does_ know that she doesn’t want it anymore than he does.

“I don’t sleep with women,” he says and doesn’t add _“and even if I did I wouldn’t sleep with you”_ because he knows she wouldn’t believe that part, not yet.

He’s never actually told anyone before, and he doesn’t know why he picks Natasha of all people. Maybe it’s because she needs to hear it, to trust in that until she can learn to trust him – if she even can.

She stills above him, looking at him assessingly. He meets her gaze steadily, and she grinds down once more for good measure – nope, nothing – before giving a short nod and pushing herself off him. Some of the tension Clint hadn’t noticed before seems to ebb from her shoulders as she settles down on the couch next to him. Helpfully he hands her top back.

“Those make you uncomfortable, Barton?” she drawls, pushing her breasts forward, and the ridiculousness of the situation makes Clint burst into laughter. He’s rewarded by a small quirk of her lips that’s quickly hidden by her pulling her T-shirt back over her head.

“So. Wanna go out?” he finally manages.

“Not really,” she says and oh. Okay then.

“Make yourself comfortable, I’ll grab a shower,” he tells her.

When he comes back she’s tucked herself in a corner of the couch with a book and so he settles down in the opposite corner with one of his own. At lunch time, he cooks and Natasha follows him into the kitchen, peering at what he’s doing doubtfully before tucking in, looking surprised when it turns out to be edible. 

They spend a quiet day together that’s strangely comfortable and it’s kinda nice to have her around.

\---

Clint isn’t really surprised when Natasha’s first mission also includes him and Phil. It’s a bit of an adjustment for all of them, going from two – or in Natasha’s case from one – to three but the mission goes well enough. It’s afterwards, when they’re keeping a low profile, and he and Phil are doing their usual post-mission ritual of writing reports in front of whatever channel the safe house’s shitty TV gets a signal for that he realises they’ve forgotten to include her. Natasha can make herself very unobtrusive when she wants to be, and she’s currently watching the two of them from the bedroom door with something that may be curiosity or longing. Clint can’t decide which before she catches him looking and the emotion is wiped off her face.

“Feel free to join us, Natasha,” Phil says without looking up from his report and she does, almost hesitantly.

She fits in surprisingly easily – too easily in fact, and Clint’s pretty sure she’s only pretending at first. But as missions follow one another and time goes by, she slowly lets more of herself show through. She starts trusting them, Clint first, and if she brushes against him sometimes, he doesn’t comment on it. Neither of them has much experience with physical contact outside of sex and violence, and he can give her that if it’s what she needs.

Trusting Phil almost happens by default once Clint’s out of the way and then, finally the rest of SHIELD. The world keeps turning.

\---

One day Phil shows up to work without his wedding ring. Clint notices first by virtue of Natasha being undercover in Switzerland at the time. She excels at it, slipping into someone else’s skin like she has none of her own and it’s both fascinating and a little terrifying to watch – like everything about Natasha. Clint has no talent for it himself: SHIELD tried to train him in infiltration shortly after he joined but he never took to it. He does fine pretending to be someone else for a short time, but anything long term and he can’t separate who he is and who he is supposed to be in his head. He made up for it with a pilot license.

But he digresses.

He’s lounging on Phil’s office couch with a cup of coffee when he finally pinpoints where the off feeling is coming from.

“Phil, what happened?” he asks, sitting up sharply, his reflexes the only thing stopping his coffee from spilling everywhere. 

Phil looks at him blankly.

“You’re not wearing your wedding ring,” Clint elaborates.

“Oh, that.” Okay, that’s not the reaction Clint was expecting. 

“We’re getting a divorce,” Phil continues matter-of-factly and Clint must look as stricken as he feels, because Phil hurries to reassure him. _Phil_ is reassuring _him_. Surely something is wrong here. “It’s fine really, we’re both okay with it. We just drifted apart a while ago and never got around to do anything about it. But Vanessa’s met someone so…” 

“You could have told me.” Clint is a little hurt he didn’t.

“Clint. It’s fine, I promise. How are things with Natasha?” Phil won’t meet his eyes, looking at the reports in front of him instead and Clint runs a hand through his hair.

Four months after being okayed to move off base Natasha more or less moved into Clint’s spare bedroom. To this day Clint doesn’t know why – maybe staring at the walls was driving her crazy too – but he likes having Natasha around. It’s better to be alone with someone else than on your own, as paradoxical as that may sound. And it’s also easier to find sleep after a bad day or a bad week with someone you trust nearby.

(Of course it also leads to situations like this because Nat has no shame and he can’t keep secrets from her:

One day he comes home to find her examining the dildo he keeps in the lower drawer of his bedside table.

“Fuck, Nat!” he sputters, because seriously?

“Do you think about Phil when you’re fucking yourself with that?” she asks with nothing but clinical curiosity in her voice but Clint knows her better than that and she’s a wicked, _wicked_ person.

Because he does think about Phil, thinks about having Phil’s hands and mouth on him and his cock deep inside him. He always tries not to and sometimes he manages ‘til the very end but he always comes with Phil’s name on his lips and he hates himself for it afterwards.

Natasha must read all the sordid tale on his face because she immediately stops finding the situation amusing and she never mentions it again. That’s another good thing about Nat.)

A result from their living arrangement is that everyone at SHIELD thinks they’re sleeping together. Clint doesn’t really care, and Nat seems to find it useful in keeping unwanted attention away. He isn’t quite sure what will happen when she decides it’s not unwanted attention anymore – or if that will ever happen, which is fine too, everything is fine – but for now it’s not doing any harm. Except maybe trying Clint’s patience when it comes to Phil, whom he can’t discourage of the notion no matter how many times he tries. 

He knows Phil doesn’t approve – or rather wants something better for Clint. He can tell by the unhappy turn of his mouth every time Natasha makes a disparaging comment about love or relationships in Clint’s presence and the way he looks a little tight around the eyes with concern when he walks in on Clint with his head propped on Nat’s thigh or Nat curled against Clint’s side. He hasn’t said anything directly to Clint though, and if he’s talked to Natasha she’s being quiet about it.

“There’s no me and Natasha,” Clint says, more exasperated than he usually allows himself to be. “And we’re talking about you. Are you okay?”

Phil finally looks at him and smiles that half-smile that usually makes his eyes crinkle and Clint’s heart beat a little faster. Today though it looks a little sad and something twists deep inside Clint’s chest.

“I’ll be fine, Clint.” Then of course he changes the subject. “We’re heading to Hong Kong this afternoon, you should go and pack. We’ll pick up Natasha on the way.”

 

The Hong Kong mission goes to hell before it even starts: Clint hasn’t even made it to his position when he gets grabbed and thrown into a cell. 

His head hurts and his ears are ringing when he wakes up. He can feel blood dripping down the side of his face and he reaches up to touch the wound gingerly. It doesn’t seem too bad, although the nausea would beg to differ. They haven’t bothered restraining him, which could either be a sign of stupidity or confidence, and unfortunately, the fact that he is even here doesn’t point towards the former. He hopes the others are doing better than him. He could use some help soon.

When the door of his cell opens again, Phil is dragged inside, looking as if he hasn’t fared much better than Clint. It’s a testament to their skills or just dumb luck that they’ve never found themselves in this particular situation before, and Clint immediately knows it’s going to be bad. 

Phil’s the one wearing the suit and so they direct their questions to him, working him over when he won’t give them anything while Clint is forced to watch, restrained by the guards in the farthest corner of the room. It’s probably the worst thing Clint’s ever had to go through, and considering his life so far that says a lot. 

When they realise it’s not getting them anywhere they change tactics and start in on Clint instead. Maybe it’s fucked up, but he’ll take that over the alternative any day although Phil doesn’t appear to agree. Clint wants to tell him he’ll be fine, he’s been through this before, but he doesn’t think it would help. Besides he’s busy trying not to scream too loudly – it makes Phil’s flinches almost noticeable every time he does and he won’t give their guards the satisfaction.

Natasha finds them soon after and Clint would cheer her on as she takes down their captors but he’s too busy crawling to Phil who grabs on to him as soon as he gets close enough and then refuses to let go. It’s fine by Clint, who’s trying to ascertain if Phil’s okay. He isn’t, neither of them is, but he is alive and not bleeding too badly from anywhere Clint can see and that will have to do for now. Everything else will follow.

As Natasha managed to show up before they could do real damage to Clint, the only things of note are the concussion, a couple of broken fingers and three new scars courtesy of a guy with an affinity for knives. Asshole. Phil is worse off with a broken arm and nose and countless bruises that make him move like an old man but there isn’t much medical can do for either of them. After a couple of days in observation, they’re both told they can go home.

“Is Vanessa going to be there?” he asks Phil and then refuses point blank to let him go home alone when he fails to provide a satisfactory answer. Not that he thinks he would have let him go if the answer had been yes – he’s somewhat reluctant to let Phil out of his sight at the moment, and the very fact that Phil isn’t putting up much of a fight would indicate the feeling is mutual.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him in the rear view mirror.

“Phil’s getting a divorce,” he explains and Phil doesn’t get any more say in the matter, he’s going home with them.

The first night is bad. Clint ends up on the couch at 2 am, unable to go back to sleep and unwilling to keep tossing and turning until he wakes Natasha up. She needs rest. 

He’s checked on Phil twice by the time the man joins him on the couch, and they sit side by side in silence, taking comfort in the other’s continued presence. Eventually Phil starts drifting back to sleep, growing heavy against Clint’s side until Clint reluctantly shakes him awake to herd him back to bed. He hates having to do it but Phil has too many bruises to sleep in that position. He’ll thank him in the morning.

“Stay,” Phil says, and if they weren’t both so fucked up it would do all kinds of things to Clint to finally have Phil in his bed.

“Yeah, okay,” he says and lies down next to him on his good side. In the dark Phil’s hand finds Clint’s wrist and wraps itself around its pulse point. Clint closes his eyes.

They’re both fine.

 

In the morning he puts up with Natasha’s knowing looks as he makes breakfast, and they all pile up in the living room. They don’t say much and when Phil gets tired the three of them migrate to the bedroom, which seems to surprise him. When Natasha pops out to get their painkillers and make some tea – the only thing Clint trusts her to do unsupervised in their kitchen – Phil gives him a wry smile and gestures at the bedroom that is clearly Clint’s.

“So. There is really no you and Natasha, is there?”

Clint looks down and shrugs. He’s been trying to tell him that for months.

“I’m gay,” he offers because that’s something else he should have said a long time ago.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Clint worries the edge of the duvet. He isn’t ashamed, and he doesn’t think it’ll matter to Phil but he’s known him for seven years and he’s never told him. If Clint felt a little betrayed when he found out Phil had hidden the fact he was having problems with his wife for a few months, how is Phil going to feel?

Phil sighs when Clint stubbornly refuses to meet his eyes. “Clint, look at me, please.” He reluctantly does, and there is no condemnation in Phil’s eyes, only acceptance. “You know it doesn’t change anything, right?”

“I know that.”

“Good. So. Anyone special in your life?” Phil asks and Clint buries a groan in a pillow.

“I don’t really date,” he mumbles, the words half-muffled. By which he means at all.

This of course is when Nat comes back into the room, her timing suspiciously good.

“Why is Clint trying to smother himself with a pillow?” she asks, putting the mugs down.

“I was asking him about his personal life,” Phil says, and Clint chokes a little. 

The pillow is yanked away from his face.

“Hey, wounded man here,” he protests, glaring at Natasha.

“So Clint,” she says sweetly. “Answer Phil’s question.”

“I already have. I don’t have one.”

The gleam in Natasha’s eyes makes him temporarily worried that she’s going to push the subject and some of his panic must show through because her expression gentles and she keeps her mouth shut.

“He loves you, you know,” she tells him afterwards when the pills have put Phil to sleep.

Clint shrugs. He does know. But: “Not like that though.”

She doesn’t contradict him, curling against him in an attempt to comfort him. It helps.

That night they have a repeat of the first and when Clint accompanies Phil back to his bed, he hovers next to him, suddenly unsure of his welcome.

“I can –” Clint starts but Phil cuts him off.

“Clint, please don’t make me get up to kick your ass,” he says, sounding too sleepy to make it a credible threat, and Clint gives in. 

Nothing’s changed.

And if there’s part of Clint that wishes something had, he ignores it. He never really thought it would happen anyway.

\---

After his divorce is finalised, Phil starts dating again. He seems almost tentative about it, but then he’s been married for over fifteen years. Unless he decides to approach dating as he would an undercover mission, he’s bound to be a little rusty. Clint tries not to find it endearing and is relieved that Phil knows better than to ask either Natasha or him for advice. Nat only dates when a cover requires it and Clint just… doesn’t. 

SHIELD is hell on any type of social life – what with the hours they keep and the sudden trips out of town – and Phil’s dating life suffers accordingly but he manages eventually.

First there is Michelle who doesn’t make it past date 2, and then Sophia who lasts a few weeks before Phil unexpectedly finds himself in Colombia for three months. Clint isn’t stalking him or anything, but there is only so much you can do when you’re stuck on top of a tree in the jungle, and the subject inevitably comes up as a filler when boredom gets to them both.

Clint hates them all a little but he’s genuinely glad for Phil. The man deserves to be happy, and Clint isn’t selfish enough to deny him. It’s fine. Clint’s fine.

Then there is James.

Clint hates him more than the others.

Phil brings the subject up so casually that for a few seconds Clint thinks he might have misheard, that Phil said “ _Jane_ ” instead but no, he’s definitely saying “ _he_ ” and Clint has to interrupt him to get some clarifications.

“I’m sorry but… since when do you date guys?” It’s a little – a lot – abrupt and Clint wishes Natasha was here with them instead of on assignment at Stark Industries because hey, he’s just found out Phil is… what? Bisexual? Questioning? Having a midlife crisis?

Phil shrugs.

“I guess I wanted to try something new.”

Jesus.

That only lasts a week and Clint’s fiercely glad when it ends because it’s one thing to think Phil isn’t interested because no matter how much he cares about Clint, he just isn’t into men, and it’s another thing entirely to imagine him with a boyfriend who isn’t Clint.

He doesn’t ask Phil the result of his experiment because in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter, not really. Clearly Clint is the problem here, not Phil.

Sometimes when he is feeling contemplative Clint wonders why he is so bad at this love thing. Surely people move on all the time, so why can’t he? He’s tried but he’s stuck: he just isn’t interested in anyone else. Maybe if he hadn’t had such a fucked up childhood he wouldn’t be going through all that first love bullshit now. Maybe if it didn’t take him so long to relax and trust people he would have an easier time falling in love and then wouldn’t be so reluctant to let the feelings go. 

Maybe he’s just wired wrong.

After James, Phil goes back to safer grounds – for Clint’s sanity anyway – with Caroline. She’s a cellist on loan to the New York Philharmonic from the Portland Symphony Orchestra for the season. It’s not meant to last but the mess in New Mexico with the guy who may or may not be a god – or an alien, Clint’s life is getting so weird – precipitates things.

Then there are almost five months during which reports of Phil’s dating life drop drastically. Clint would be concerned but there is the whole frozen Captain America thing, and Phil looks happy and that’s really all he needs to know.

But then Fury gives him the surveillance detail for the Tesseract, and Natasha insists on taking him out somewhere nice for dinner before he gets stuck for months on end in the middle of the desert with nothing but cafeteria food.

Clint’s the one who spots Phil and his date first and he turns betrayed eyes on Nat except she seems just as surprised as he is and of course she would never do this because Natasha isn’t cruel, not to her friends.

“We can go,” she offers and Clint almost says yes but the place is a favourite of theirs – all three of them, he remembers now – and besides Phil’s seen them already.

He waves them over and introduces them to David, who seems delighted to finally meet friends of Phil’s and insists they share a table. The man is a doctor and a nice guy and he makes Phil smile. They’re obviously comfortable around each other and they must have been dating for a while. Clint suddenly feels inexplicably tired.

“Is he a mark?” Nat hisses at Phil when David excuses himself to use the restroom and Phil rolls his eyes fondly at her.

Clint finds himself longing for the quiet of the desert.

 

Of course it’s just his luck that Coulson’s overseeing some big project going on at the same facility. It’s above Clint’s clearance and he knows not to ask questions but it means he sees more of Phil than he had expected.

This may be the most boring detail ever and it’s underground, which Clint doesn’t like, but at least there is plenty of space in the Tesseract room. Clint finds himself reverting to bad habits, choosing high grounds over people. There’s comfort in the familiarity. 

“How’s David coping?” he asks one morning, a little awkward, when they’re having coffee before his beginning of shift. 

That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Long distance relationships can be hard – or so he hears, it’s not like he’s got any experience in the matter – and whatever his feelings may be he still wants things to work out for Phil.

The smile that softens Phil’s features makes Clint sad but happy too. Maybe he’s getting used to this after all.

“We’re doing okay.”

“He makes you happy, doesn’t he?” Clint says and if he sounds a little wistful, Phil doesn’t have to know why.

“Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

“Good. If he breaks your heart, you tell me. Natasha and I will make him regret it.”

When the relationship does end two months later – Clint never does find out what happens exactly though he assumes the distance and time apart finally got too much for one of them – Clint doesn’t feel relief or joy. He can’t, not when Phil’s so clearly miserable. Not that you can actually tell unless you know what to look for – it wouldn’t do for any junior agent roaming the halls to see Phil as anything but the utmost professional.

So in the evenings, Clint keeps Phil company, his quarters too small for two grown men but they’ve both stayed in worse before. He lets Phil talk when he needs to and when he doesn’t they sit together, the silence familiar and comfortable. Clint doesn’t know what else to do, the situation yet another thing his life never prepared him for, but as months go by Phil starts looking like himself again and Clint thinks maybe he’s doing enough.

Then Loki shows up.

\---

When it’s all over Clint flies them back to the Helicarrier and forces himself to look at the destruction he wrought on the ship before he lands the Quinjet. He isn’t really surprised to find Hill waiting for him with a couple of agents. She looks pretty beaten up and it’s Clint’s fault but he can’t find any trace of condemnation on her face when she says:

“You know the drill, Barton.”

He does know the drill. He was brainwashed, worked against SHIELD for days, and upon his return to normal he promptly stole a Quinjet and went AWOL. Granted, it was for a good cause but it probably didn’t help his case.

“Yeah.”

He starts taking off what little weapons he’s got left and feels more than sees Nat tense minutely next to him. He gives her a small shake of the head as he passes his weapons over to her for safekeeping, almost surprised that she would want to fight this.

That’s when the others catch on.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Stark asks loudly.

“It’s just protocol, Stark,” Hill replies, waving at the agents who move in to bracket Clint.

Rogers frowns. “Is it really necessary?”

“It’s fine,” Clint says. It is. He _wants_ to go with them. He needs to make as sure as he can that Loki’s influence is really gone.

As he’s led away he sees Natasha walk up to Hill. He’s already too far away to hear what they’re saying, the noise on the deck making even the loudest conversation private, but as he rounds a corner that will put them out of sight the two women turn back to look at him, and Clint suddenly has a bad feeling about it.

He’s in lock-up for seven days undergoing MRIs and EEGs and whatever tests SHIELD’s doctors can think of to make sure he’s free of any outside influence. When he isn’t talking to shrinks he’s talking to Hill, going through everything that happened with Loki in painful detail. It’s still better than the alternative though, because when there’s no one around he’s left alone with his guilt and it’s almost more than he can bear. 

He isn’t allowed visitors until he’s cleared. When he is Natasha shows up with a change of clothes.

“Thor’s taking Loki back to Asgard today, I thought you might want to come and see him off,” she says and Clint nods because he’s been locked up in a cell for a week and he needs some fresh air.

The light of the sun is painful, and Natasha wordlessly hands him his sunglasses. She’s been there too.

After Thor and Loki are gone the two of them drive home – Brooklyn at least is still standing. Clint’s half-expecting Phil to be there to fuss over them. He isn’t but then the clean-up must be keeping him busy. Not that Clint would know, it’s not like he had a TV in his cell.

“Have you heard from Phil?” he asks, absently grabbing the phone to call him and tell him to come over for dinner if he’s got time, but Natasha takes the phone out of his hand before he can dial and guides him to the couch.

The bad feeling from before comes back tenfold.

“Talk to me, Nat,” he says because something _is_ wrong, he just doesn’t know what and he’s got to know.

“Phil’s dead, Clint.”

No.

He shakes his head in denial and:

“No,” he says, out loud this time as if it will make a difference.

“He went after Loki on the ‘carrier,” Nat goes on inexorably and Clint has to move, has to put some distance between them in case it makes her words less true. He isn’t hearing this, he won’t. He _can’t_. “He was trying to get Thor out of the containment chamber.”

“Shut up,” he pleads but she isn’t done, not yet.

“Loki stabbed him. Medical had to call it.”

Clint slides down the wall to sit on the floor, covering his ears with his hands to block her out. It’s too late though, she’s finally stopped talking and Clint feels like he can’t breathe, can’t even process any of it.

He makes a wounded sound when Natasha wraps an arm around him and he allows it until it becomes unbearable.

“I can’t,” he says and scrambles away from her. 

Phil’s dead. Clint killed him. It may have been Loki’s hand but it was Clint’s intel and planning that led him there in the first place. He should have tried harder, should have been able to fight Loki’s control better. He should have been there for Phil and Nat and all of SHIELD instead of being the one almost taking them down to their knees. 

Natasha should keep her comfort for someone who deserves it.

He escapes to the roof, which would hardly be a deterrent for Natasha under normal circumstances. This one time she leaves him in peace until the sun starts setting and she appears next to him, tugging him back inside. She forces him to eat a sandwich and then puts him to bed – hers, not his, and he’s grateful for that because otherwise all he would be able to think about would be Phil in his bed after the Hong Kong mission.

The room is dark and when his eyes adjust he can make out Natasha’s face and for the first time he notices that she looks like crap. He feels a pang of guilt, because of course it’s not just him dealing with this. Natasha loved Phil too, as much as she allows herself to love anyone, and she’s just spent a week having to deal with it on her own.

“How can you even stand to be around me?” he wonders out loud and she hits him. Hard.

“Don’t you ever dare say that again,” she hisses and then wraps herself around him, as if intent on protecting him from the entire world, himself included. 

Tasha doesn’t cry but there are fine tremors running through her body and that’s what finally sets Clint off. His tears fall silently at first and then turn into gut-wrenching sobs that make it almost impossible to breathe until he quiets down, too exhausted to cry anymore. Through it all Natasha doesn’t let go and he doesn’t either. They hold onto each other, frighteningly aware that they’re all the other has left now, and it _hurts_.

 

For the next few weeks they go through the motions. Natasha is better at faking it than Clint, but they’re supposed to be laying low so it doesn’t really matter. Clint just feels numb most of the time except when he feels angry – at himself, at Loki, at Natasha even, or worst of all at Phil for being so fucking stupid and going off on his own – and he doesn’t know which he likes better.

Then one day, a little over a month after New York, Fury calls them back to the Helicarrier. It’s still limping about with repairs underway and Clint tries not to meet anyone’s eyes until they reach the conference room. The rest of the Avengers are there too – minus Thor who’s probably still in Asgard – and Fury is looking pleased about something. That’s a sight which would normally worry Clint a little but he just can’t bring himself to care.

“The WSC has agreed to put the Avengers on the payroll,” Fury announces. “Of course it’s up to you to decide for yourselves whether you want to be a part of it or not. But I thought you might want to know that Agent Coulson will be the Avengers’ handler.” He directs the latter at Clint and Natasha in particular and is met by complete silence.

“Is this some sort of joke?” Rogers finally says while Stark opens and closes his mouth repeatedly as if he can’t make up his mind on what he wants to say first.

Clint can’t feel anything except the too tight grip Natasha has on his hand.

“I may have been a little premature in reporting his death,” Fury says, sounding supremely unbothered. “While Agent Coulson did die at the scene medical was eventually able to revive him after six minutes of cardiac arrest. He’s doing much better now – should be released any day.”

“And you didn’t say anything before now _why_ exactly?” Rogers sounds remarkably calm for a guy who looks as angry as he does.

“It wasn’t the right time.”

“Bullshit,” Stark finally explodes, causing Banner to jump and Natasha’s grip to tighten reflexively. “You just didn’t have anything you wanted to manipulate us into doing then. So you, what, figured you’d hold on to that little piece of information until you thought of something?”

The situation degenerates into general chaos from there and Clint looks at Natasha desperately, needing her to tell him it’s not a trick. That it’s _real_.

Phil’s alive.

Clint didn’t kill him.

“Where is he?” Natasha’s sharp voice cuts through the shouting and the room falls quiet once more as everyone waits for Fury’s answer. 

When it comes, Natasha stands and leaves the room, tugging Clint along with her as she still hasn’t let go of his hand – or maybe Clint hasn’t released hers. Either way he’s grateful because he isn’t sure he could have made himself move otherwise. He peripherally registers that the rest of the team is following them but the only thing that makes sense right now is the warmth of Natasha’s hand in his and the purposeful way she strides through hallways and down staircases.

And then she opens a door and even that stops making sense because Phil is there and Phil is alive and he smiles at them, and Clint can’t, he just _can’t_.

He stumbles back out of the room and leans against the nearest wall for support, fighting for control over too many emotions. He’s breathing too fast and his throat feels raw, his skin too tight, and the need for space, for heights or his bow and half a day at the range is almost overwhelming. He can’t deal with this, doesn’t _know_ how to deal with it, and he needs someone to tell him because he doesn’t understand _what the hell is going on_. He should be over the moon, not losing it in the fucking hallway.

Natasha gives him a full minute to pull himself back together before she slips out of the room to stand in front of him. Her hands are gentle as she pushes his head down so he’ll stop staring blankly at some random spot on the wall in front of him and meet her eyes instead. Clint blinks, trying to focus on her, but he doesn’t quite manage.

“Come back inside,” she says and Clint shakes his head. _No_.

“Clint, please. He needs to see you. With Loki, we thought you were _gone_ , that we wouldn’t get you back, he needs…” She trails off, struggling to put emotions into words, and Clint closes his eyes for a brief second before pushing himself off the wall jerkily. 

He can’t, he really can’t but if Phil needs him to then he will, of course he will.

Still…

“Why didn’t he say anything?” he asks, hovering by the door because that betrayal hurts worse than Fury’s.

Natasha shrugs. “No phone.”

Of course she would notice that.

At that moment a nurse bustles past them and into Phil’s room.

“If you tear off your stitches because you’ve tried to get out of bed _again_ , I will use the restraints,” they hear her say sternly and Clint doesn’t need the small nudge Natasha gives him to start moving.

He slinks back into the room and ducks his head slightly in both embarrassment and apology when Phil zeroes in on him and stops trying to get to his feet to the nurse’s – and everyone else’s – relief. 

Clint hangs back, unsure what to do with himself, and watches. Phil looks… okay, maybe. Paler than usual, less compact too, but not as bad as he probably did a few weeks ago. Clint’s fucked-up brain is happy to supply him with plenty of images. But if he’s being released soon he must be better, no matter how much fussing the nurse is doing.

When she leaves, Natasha who doesn’t share his qualms about what to do commandeers one of the chairs next to Phil. Stark is equally unbothered and hasn’t stopped railing against Fury since Clint came in. When he finally does, it’s to insist Phil move into Stark Tower until he’s better.

The look on Phil’s face at the suggestion almost brings a smile to Clint’s face, the first in weeks.

“What?” Stark says defensively. “He’ll need to have people around to look after him. And Bruce is a doctor – kinda,” he adds when Banner shoots him a look that says this hardly is his area of expertise.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.” Phil sounds a little touched and Clint straightens from his slouch abruptly. He isn’t going to say yes, is he?

“Stark, shut up,” Natasha cuts in and something inside Clint loosens. “Phil has people to look after him. He’s coming home with us.”

“Us who?” Stark asks with a speculative gleam in his eyes and when Natasha tilts her head in Clint’s direction they all turn to look at him. He wishes he could disappear again.

“You and him? Really?”

Clint can’t help the snort – though he manages to stop it from turning into a sob or hysterical laughter, it’s a toss-up as to which would win right now – and Natasha just stares Stark down until Rogers wisely says they should let Agent Coulson rest and ushers Stark and Banner out of the room. Then it’s just the three of them and Clint forces himself to move closer to the bed, taking the other chair.

“You’re okay?” Phil asks and Clint shakes his head mutely because no, he really isn’t.

So he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the harsh cotton of the bedding and he shakes and shakes even as Phil’s hand finds the back of his head and holds on.

He’s not okay, not at all, but maybe now he can start getting better.

\---

Phil moves back into Clint’s bedroom without much fanfare although the rest of the team insists on accompanying him. Clint is a little anxious about having so many people in his space but Banner stops Stark from poking around too much and they don’t stay long once they’ve made sure Phil’s living conditions are acceptable. And really Clint can’t help but feel a little insulted. What did they think, that they would make him sleep on the couch?

Every day Phil gets a little stronger and the lines around Nat’s eyes get lighter, and every day Clint finds that he can breathe a little easier.

The nights are still a whole different story and he’s surprised Natasha hasn’t kicked him out of her bed yet for all the tossing and turning he does in his dreams. Some nights he ends up on the couch anyway and others yet he finds himself in his bedroom, watching the steady rise and fall of Phil’s chest in an attempt to reassure himself that he’s still there. Phil says he doesn’t mind – in fact he sleeps better when Clint’s there – and that Clint can share the bed with him if he thinks it will help but Clint just shakes his head. He moves around too much when he has nightmares and Phil has worse than a broken arm this time, he isn’t going to risk setting back his recovery.

“Do you want us to contact David?” he asks Phil one day out of the blue, ignoring the sharp look Natasha sends his way. The man had made Phil happy, and Phil will probably travel less now that he’s the Avengers’ handler. If Phil wants to give it another shot, he should go for it.

But Phil shakes his head and Clint doesn’t mention it again.

Eventually the good nights outnumber the bad, and psych finally clears Clint for duty. Not that it changes anything: in the six months since Loki there’s been nothing for the Avengers to do, and while Clint and Natasha are still SHIELD agents Fury doesn’t seem inclined to send them anywhere. It may or may not be his way of apologising for Phil but either way Clint will take it.

Then one evening Clint falls asleep on the couch, and hours later finds himself dreaming of Loki and blue and Phil and blood.

It hasn’t happened in a while and it’s a bad one, taking him completely by surprise. When he is finally yanked out of it, he jerks awake with a start and Phil’s name on his lips, and the man himself is there, one hand still on his shoulder from shaking him awake.

Clint feels raw and flayed wide-open and Phil is _right there_ , alive and whole. Clint knows he’s showing too much, so he closes his eyes and turns his head away but it’s already too late.

“Clint…” Phil sounds at a complete loss and he can’t do this, not now.

“Can you get Natasha?” he asks tightly, and for a second he thinks Phil is going to press the issue – he almost wants him to. But Phil stands, the couch dipping a little and Clint hears him move to Natasha’s bedroom, knocking once on the door before pushing it open. He can’t hear their exchange but seconds later Phil retreats to the other bedroom, and Natasha puts her arms around him.

She’s familiar and comforting and Clint feels like crying a little because everything had been going so well, they had finally gotten their equilibrium back. Why did he have to fuck things up now?

“Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” he whispers to himself, and Nat hums against his hair.

“It’ll be okay,” she tells him, and for once he doesn’t believe her.

 

He’s expecting the conversation with Phil the next day, because it’s one thing for the man to respect his wishes when Clint’s off balance from a nightmare and quite another for him to ignore a problem once he’s been made aware of it.

“Go easy on him,” he hears Natasha tell Phil before she leaves them alone, making him wince.

The thing is, Clint’s been in love with Phil for so long that he doesn’t think about it most of the time. It’s just there, as much a part of him as his marksmanship or Natasha. He isn’t going to fall apart because Phil knows. Of course he would have preferred if he never found out, but that was more for Phil’s sake than his own. Yes, it sucks to be in love with someone who doesn’t love him back, but Clint thinks it must be even worse to be in Phil’s shoes, to know someone he cares about loves him that much and not feel the same way. To know he’s breaking Clint’s heart a little every day when all Phil wants is for him to be happy.

No, Clint never wanted that for Phil.

But now Phil knows – time to do some damage control. He hands Phil his morning coffee and sits opposite him at the kitchen table. He doesn’t avoid his eyes, just looks back at him steadily, and waits.

“How long?” Phil starts with and Clint shrugs.

“Does it matter?”

“A little, yes.”

“Then a while.” Which is all Phil’s getting because Clint doesn’t think admitting it’s been years is going to help at all with their current situation.

“Before Loki?” Phil presses, and Clint frowns a little, trying to figure out where he’s going with that line of questioning. He doesn’t have long though because once he nods Phil asks something else:

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Clint smiles wryly.

“What good would it have done?”

“Clint…”

“Look, it’s fine, I’m fine. Just… forget it, okay?”

“But I can’t forget it!” Phil bursts out, and this is exactly what Clint had been trying to avoid. “Clint, you’re in love with me.”

“I know that,” Clint replies, tone heavy with sarcasm because it’s not like he could have possibly forgotten since they started this conversation. “And I’m telling you it’s _fine_ , you don’t have to worry about it.”

He stands – as far as he’s concerned he’s said all he had to say. Phil makes a frustrated sound and gets to his feet as well. He walks around the table until he and Clint are standing in front of one another, and for a few seconds they just stare at each other, frozen. And then Phil leans forward and brushes their lips together.

Clint jerks away.

“Don’t, please,” he says quietly. _Not unless you mean it_ , he doesn’t add, because Phil being kind might just succeed in breaking him when nothing else has.

“I want to give it a shot. Can we?”

Clint almost says yes, he _wants_ to say yes, except–

“No,” he states and takes a step back.

“Why?”

_Because I want all or nothing and I won’t survive it if you end up deciding it’s not worth it after all_ , he thinks and some of it must show on his face because Phil’s expression softens.

“I won’t change my mind,” he says gently, and Clint laughs harshly.

“You can’t know that for sure,” he points out.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I can. Clint, do you know how many times I jerked off thinking about you?”

Heat floods through Clint at the unexpected statement.

“What?” he stammers.

“You’re the reason I thought I might be interested in men as well as women,” Phil says with a slight smile. “Do you know how terrifying it is to figure that out at 45?”

Clint shakes his head in denial – Phil Coulson isn’t afraid of anything – and Phil shoots him a look that says Clint knows better.

It’s true, he does.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Clint asks, grasping at straws in an attempt to make sense of it all. Phil had all the information in hand, if he was interested in him then why not do something about it?

“At first I wanted to be sure. Didn’t think it would be fair to experiment with you if it turned out I couldn’t go through with it. And once I _was_ sure, it just didn’t look like this –” he gestures between the two of them, “– was a possibility.”

At Clint’s questioning eyebrow, he elaborates.

“Frankly, I didn’t think you were interested in relationships. Sometimes I wondered if you were even interested in sex, and I think I could have dealt with that but I never got around to asking. I know you don’t like talking about your personal life. Then I met David, and he wasn’t you but I liked him so I figured why not.”

Oh.

“I’m interested. In both. With you,” Clint clarifies.

“We’ll take it slow,” Phil says almost questioningly and Clint kind of wants to say fuck slow but then he thinks fast might kill him before he can wrap his mind around it.

“Are you sure?” he asks a little desperately. “You’ve got to be sure.”

“I’m sure. Are _you_?”

“Fuck yes,” he says and kisses Phil. Slowly.

 

_Epilogue_

Clint lowers himself on Phil’s cock slowly, groaning at the burn. They’ve been working their way towards this for what feels like months – when Phil says slow, it turns out he _really_ means slow – and they’re finally there. They’ve had the conversation about work –

(“I can ask for a reassignment.”

“Are you serious? We’re both professional, we’ll deal with it.”)

– and Natasha –

(“You know Natasha isn’t going anywhere, right? Unless she wants to of course. She might even show up in bed every once in a while – to sleep. You’d be fine with that?”

“Yes, Clint, I know you and Natasha come as a package deal.”)

– and so many dates and foreplay that Clint felt like he might explode but now he’s got Phil’s hands gripping his hips and his cock deep inside him and Clint bottoms out probably faster than he should, gasping at the twinge.

“Fuck, Clint,” Phil moans, “You’re tight. How long has it been?”

“A while,” Clint says with a slight grin and Phil’s fingers dig into his hips involuntarily.

Clint moves slowly at first as he gets used to the feeling again, keeping one hand splayed on Phil’s chest close to the scar that’s finally starting to fade.

“Clint,” Phil says, one of his hands coming up to cover Clint’s and he has to kiss him then, bending down to do just that. 

Phil’s other hand moves up to bury itself in Clint’s hair, keeping him close even as Clint starts moving faster, shoving himself back onto Phil’s cock with a desperation born of years of wanting. When Phil’s hips snap up and make him see stars, he knows he isn’t going to last, and he doesn’t care because they’ll have plenty of opportunities to do it all over again.

“Phil, fuck, Phil,” he says, half-groan half-sob as he wraps a hand around his cock and jerks himself off in the same desperate rhythm he’s currently fucking himself with Phil’s cock to, and then he’s coming with a shout all over himself and Phil.

It takes him a few seconds to come back to himself and when he does, shifting slightly above Phil he can feel every inch of his cock still hard inside him.

“Can I?” Phil asks, sounding strained.

“Yeah.”

Phil rolls them over, his cock slipping out before he lines himself up again and sinks back in with an impatient twist of his hips. Clint whines low in his throat, still sensitive from his orgasm, and Phil pauses, giving him a moment to adjust, his face a picture of concentration.

“Move,” Clint tells him and Phil doesn’t need more than that, slamming into him in a way that makes Clint keen and dig his blunt fingernails in Phil’s shoulders, lower back, any part of him he can reach to bring him _closer_ , spreading his legs wider so Phil can take everything he wants.

“Phil, Phil, _Phil_ ,” he gasps, and then: “Oh fuck don’t stop.”

“You had to be a talker in bed,” Phil groans, sounding helplessly turned on and Clint laughs, breathless and happy because yeah, he had been surprised too. 

“You knew that already,” he points out, a little strangled. The first time Phil had given him a blowjob Clint hadn’t been able to shut up for even a second of it until he had come down Phil’s throat and finally been rendered speechless. Phil had finished gratifyingly quickly after that.

“It’s not the same,” Phil says raggedly, not loud enough to drown out Clint’s _“Phil, fuck”_ and: “Christ, Clint, if you _don’t stop talking_ I’m gonna come.”

“I thought that was the plan,” Clint grins and clamps down around him to see what kind of reaction that will get him. A brilliant one, it turns out: Phil’s completely gone, all erratic motions and no finesse, groaning low in his throat as his hips jerk hard against Clint’s ass and he comes apart. 

Clint holds onto him and gentles him through it, wincing a little when Phil pulls out and gets rid of the condom. He’s going to feel that tomorrow. Totally worth it though.

“You okay?” Phil asks as he makes quick work of wiping them both down, his voice more gravelly than Clint’s ever heard it. It’s a lovely sound.

“I’m great,” he says and pulls Phil back down. He goes willingly, settling against Clint with an arm wrapped around his waist, and Clint rests his head against his shoulder with a soft kiss.

They trace lazy circles on each other’s skin, saying more than Clint could ever hope to manage with words – though he will try, for Phil. 

Eventually, he feels himself drifting off and he fights it, wanting to enjoy this just a little while longer.

“Go to sleep,” Phil murmurs against his temple.

So he does.

Phil will be there when he wakes up.


End file.
